


Noble, Foreign Tongues

by Scuffin_MacGuffin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dat Grey Warden Stamina, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scuffin_MacGuffin/pseuds/Scuffin_MacGuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Order of the Grey has always held a particular fascination for Sebastian. Upon bedding a certain someone, however, Sebastian surprises himself by finding that he has as much interest in the man as in the legend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noble, Foreign Tongues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstblush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstblush/gifts).



> Written for [this prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/6614.html?thread=21973462#t21973462) at the Dragon Age Kink Meme, and also for my dearest. Completely ridiculous and void of sense, basically. Ah well. Such is porn.

+

It has always been one of Sebastian’s idle daydreams, to bed a Warden.

Growing up, much space in his imagination had been occupied by tales of the Order’s daring. And how could it not be? Starkhaven was the place where the last battle of the Second Blight was fought, where the Grey Warden Corin slew Zazikel after ninety years of strife. The city is rife with reminders of the sacrifice: statues, plaques, a veritable slew of fondly told stories. Sebastian heard many of them as a child on his grandfather’s knee; they inspired a fair amount of reckless adventuring, much to the chagrin of his parents.

As he got older and continued to roam the city, he started to hear a different flavor of Warden stories being recounted: fanciful rumors of Grey Warden stamina were widespread and well-chuckled-over. A lover might brag that her passion was as great as Neriah’s; another might say that, like Garahel, he could go all night.

Sebastian found these tales to be just as inspiring as their less salacious counterparts. They recounted a fantasy uniquely appealing to him: valor in the streets and wickedness between the sheets, an entire order of bold folk who served a higher purpose but who also took their pleasures heedlessly and without reservation. As if they were entitled to them.

In the palace, with his parents, Sebastian was always presented with a stark choice between duty and indulgence; there was no way he could have both. But the Wardens, at least as they were imagined in the minds of tipsy tavern-goers and lurid writers, never faced such a choice. They made great sacrifices, and still had great appetite, in everything. They were allowed -- they _needed_ \-- to take.

Sebastian had often dreamed of being one of them, of having a chance at a life that held meaning without being so miserably circumscribed.

Just as often, he had dreamed of being taken.

Eventually he matured out of active wantonness, acquiescing to his role in the Chantry and accepting that his teenage his teenaged Warden fantasies were, in fact, nothing but fantasies, stories blown out of proportion about figures who were already larger than life.

But things are different, now. Things have developed in different directions. He is out of the Chantry again, and he can’t quite make himself fit back into it. His heart led him this way, raging, after his family’s death, and then his heart led him again, restless, following in Hawke’s wide-ranging footsteps. Then, finally, his heart had led him, wistful, into another man’s bed -- Anders’ bed, of all people’s. Sebastian still can’t quite answer the question of _why;_ it was more like a why not, in all honesty. Why not, when all the fixities he thought he’d anchored himself to were melting away? Why not, when the goals he’d set himself up to achieve kept receding further and further from reach? With Elthina still skeptical of his desire to rejoin the Chantry, and all of Starkhaven skeptical of his ability to fitly lead it, nowhere in the world held any place for him. Why not make a place, then, excavate one between the sheets, fall into desire to dilute the bitterness of defeat? What indeed could be the reason to _not_ let it happen?

And Anders was a Warden, besides. Or an ex-Warden, really, but Sebastian had heard him say more than once that it is not really something you can leave behind you. It had always been one of his idle daydreams, to bed a Warden. Fitting, then, to achieve such a conquest in the height of his indecisive idleness. Even if it wasn’t a liaison that Sebastian could properly take any pride in, he could at least image his teenage self cheering.

He could _especially_ picture his teenage self cheering after he learned that every story he’d ever heard about Warden virility was in fact completely true.

The first time they’d gone to bed had been at the Hanged Man -- of course it had been at the Hanged Man, where all follies find their start -- and it had been very, very good, and they had fallen asleep in the musty rented bed together afterwards, less out of any real desire for continued proximity than out of the lack of energy to do anything else. Sebastian fully expected Anders to be gone when he woke up again; he had been surprised to next open his eyes not to empty bed and sunlight, but to the sound of Anders furtively jerking off next to him. By the position of the moon out the window, not even an hour had passed.

“Uh,” Anders had said, when Sebastian rolled over, “Sorry. Once I get started, it’s hard to-- you know. Warden stamina and all that.”

The fact that “all that” wasn’t a myth was something Sebastian had been proud not to betray his sudden surge of delight at. “Let me,” he’d said, very reasonably, instead of begging _please_ \-- and Maker, but then it had gone on and _on._

Of course he’d found his way to Anders’ bed again, after that. He’d have to be made of stone to resist seeking him out. The man now has him pretty well hooked.

It’s just as well. It gives Sebastian something new to think about, at least, rather than just letting the same old thoughts re-circle. And besides, he suspects that Anders benefits from the extra looking after.

Tonight, as a courtesy, Sebastian is bringing him dinner. Spending more time with Anders -- spending more intervals awkwardly putting his clothes back on as Anders does the same, trying to think of something to talk about that will perhaps engender familiarity instead of sniping -- has made him realize how little Anders actually manages to eat. He is always so busy he forgets, he says. Sebastian doesn’t know how you could forgot about a growling stomach, but he thinks (is thinking more and more) that he’d like to know how. He’d like to know a lot of things, about Anders, would like explanations for all of the peculiarities he is coming to notice: Anders’ incredible tirelessness in chasing down his goals, Anders’ odd, grudging, sense of kindness which emerges only rarely but is no less compassionate for its infrequency, Anders’ impossible status as not quite a man, not quite less than a man, beyond any definition -- Sebastian can’t help but feel a persistent curiosity, one that is hardly even mixed in with apprehension anymore. It’s funny. He used to be so _good_ at casual flings. But now he is finding that he desires not only to bed Anders, but also to understand him.

Dinner is a good excuse to make progress on that front. It’s also a good excuse to be at the clinic at all, certainly better than having to admit plainly that he has come nosing for sex like a stray tom. Not that Anders would find that insulting, to be sure; Anders likes the sex too, after all, and he doesn’t regard Sebastian highly enough to bother with any other use for him. 

But Sebastian nonetheless doesn’t want to appear to be selfish, perhaps less so to Anders than to himself. When he and Anders both happen to be at the Hanged Man anyway, that is not quite so bad; to propose a dalliance to him then is no imposition on his time or into his space. But when Sebastian started finding himself drawn to Darktown independently of their associations at the tavern or of Hawke’s adventuring -- well, that was different. That needed some measure of thoughtfulness. An actual reason to be there.

Last week, his excuse was a satchel of bandages and a crate of flasks, supplies that the Chantry had in excess -- or at least, had in excess compared to what Anders’ clinic had. Anders had been fairly happy with that. The week before, his excuse was news: Hawke wanted them all for a jaunt. Anders had not been quite so pleased. Sebastian wonders what kind of reaction dinner will warrant, one or the other or something in between: he hopes Anders will like it, but there is of course no guarantee. The man is stubborn, and jaggedly so, and Sebastian finds it hard to predict him -- Sebastian relishes the challenge of doing so. He enters the clinic with pleasant anticipation -- for sex, for more indefinable things -- buzzing between his ears.

Inside the clinic, it is all yellow torchlight and the smell of elfroot and salve; the smell of elfroot is the smell of Anders, overpowering, like Anders is, and strangely comforting, like Anders can be, and Sebastian feels a startling amount of sudden ease. He walks up behind Anders, to where he is sitting scribbling at his desk, and touches his shoulder with only a little bit of propriety. “Hello,” he says.

Anders peers over his shoulder at him, expression rife with irony. _You again,_ say his raised brows and crooked, already-curling mouth. With his voice he says, “Hello. I’m working.” 

“I thought as much,” Sebastian replies. “I also thought I’d bring you dinner.”

“Kind of you. But I’m still working.”

“And I still thought as much.” Anders’ mouth curls even further upwards, and Sebastian feels his lips twitch in return. He leaves his basket of food on Anders’ desk and lets him get back to his writing, turning away to look for something else to do -- the clinic is always full of something elses to do, and given that Anders is nearly always busy when he arrives, Sebastian has had cause to learn the doing of some of them. He lets his hand linger for a moment, brushes the uncovered nap of Anders’ neck before he steps away, and is gratified to feel Anders’ spine stiffen in response. A little bit of a triumph, like he used to feel, back when he thought of every partner as a conquest.

And yet, this is as far removed from that as could be. He is about to spend a few hours engaged in the mundanities of humble, un-glorious charity, for one, all without any explicit promise of reward. His younger self, however cheerful at bagging a Warden, would be appalled.

Sebastian allows his lips to bloom fully into a smile.

He boils water and sanitizes bandages, strips the sheets from the cots and exchanges them for new, organizes the shelves of potions by type so that one doesn’t have to spend forever rummaging through them. Most of his chosen tasks are merely things that it seems could use doing; if he’s unsure, he asks one of the clinic’s regular volunteers. They are friendly enough folk, a little wary of him, but pleasant to chat with nonetheless. Patients trickle in and out, and whenever someone new comes Anders rises from his desk to see to them; Sebastian can’t help but pause, at those instances, attention drawn helplessly to the quiet cadence of Anders’ voice as he murmurs to the sick. Miracle after miracle is performed here, deep underneath the city, miracle after miracle summoned up between Anders’ palms with exactly no expectations on Anders’ part of receiving anything in return. Sebastian grew up with his parents’ conception of showy royal duty, with his own fantasies of Grey Wardens and glory, with the Chantry’s eye-catching crimson and gold. These gentle gestures, small unheralded exchanges -- he has no way to account for them. It is like peering at something secret. A foreign tongue he might have once heard in a dream.

It is almost easier when the night finally winds down, when the volunteers head for home, one after the other, when the patients either take their leave or settle down into a cot under the influence of one of Anders’ heavy sleep draughts. When there is no one to tend to anymore, and Anders turns his attention entirely to his quill. Sebastian doesn’t have to be so careful not to interrupt anything sacred, then. He wanders over to Anders’ desk, under the pretense of putting some order to his precarious stacks of books. He is gratified to see that all of the food he brought is gone; it brings some warmth to him, makes him feel a little useful. He does like feeling useful, like he has a purpose. Princes have purposes, and so do priests; Sebastian is not so good at inhabiting either role, currently, and has to find little pieces of meaning elsewhere.

Wardens have purpose written into their blood, but even if they didn’t, Anders wouldn’t have any trouble finding meaning on his own.

Sebastian feels a swell of admiration in him, and he doesn’t know whether it’s for the Warden or for the man. Sebastian feels a swell of desire too -- he wants to show his admiration. His appreciation.

The clinic is empty enough, the remaining patients deep in sleep. Surely an interruption now wouldn’t be so unwelcome. It might even be a refuge, for Anders, a break from an endlessly grappling with his words.

Thought of in that way, the action could almost be justified as selfless -- though Sebastian, feeling his own ardor, knows better. He leans against Anders’ desk, and tries to look as casual as he isn’t. “How is writing?” 

“How’s it look?” Anders shoots back without looking up, frustration in his voice. Sebastian examines Anders’ parchment, and can see that he hasn’t made much progress; he is still on the same page he was when Sebastian first arrived, though the paper is dark with ink now, words written in and crossed out again in a seemingly endless tangle.

Sebastian can see why it would cause irritation; he knows how it feels, after all, to be subject to your own thoughts’ fruitless circling. “I’m sorry.”

“Bah.”

His lips twitch both with fondness and with sympathy; he almost wants to offer to read Anders’ draft for him, but he isn’t sure he is prepared to engage in the arguments that that would surely invoke. Instead, he circles the desk and comes around behind Anders, dropping his hands onto Anders’ shoulders, dropping his nose into to the tickling smoothness of Anders’ hair. “You work very hard,” he says.

Anders doesn’t immediately respond, his focus still intent upon his work. But he also doesn’t object to Sebastian’s touch, so Sebastian doesn’t move. Just strokes his shoulders soothingly, allowing himself to get lost in the peace of it, the simplicity of the task he’s set himself. Anders writes for a time, then furiously crosses out what he’s written, then throws down his quill and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his forehead. “Yet however hard I work, I never seen to get anywhere.”

Sebastian kisses the top of his head. “Poor man.”

“Fool man.”

“No more than anyone else is.”

“You don’t know me well enough to say things like that,” Anders says, his eyes slitting open.

Sebastian says, “I think that’s a shame.”

The hand that Anders was pressing to his forehead travels quickly, reaching up and around and finding the back of Sebastian’s neck. He grips him there, holds his gaze in place. “Vael, tell me what it is you’re fishing for.”

Sebastian almost laughs -- isn’t it obvious? But then, perhaps it is not. It is true, after all, that he himself has been noticing a whole slew of motivations for coming down here, and not all of them have to do with the activities the two of them can engage in atop Anders’ dingy mattress.

It’s too difficult a question to answer directly. Sebastian runs his hands from Anders’ shoulders down his front, pressing at his chest with the heels of his hands; his lips he lets hover just barely above the shell of Anders’ ear. “Guess.”

Two minutes later he is naked and on his knees on the dirt floor of Anders’ backroom. It’s the most direct guess that Anders could have made, and it’s also the one that is easiest to agree with. The one that is easiest to agree with without having to think about it first -- being here, like this, precludes all thought. Instead of shivering at potentialities, the only thing Sebastian is shivering under is the weight of Anders’ eyes.

Not that that weight is not a heavy one, not that it in and of itself does not take some bearing: Anders is looking at him like he always does, like he likes to do, before he lets Sebastian get anywhere with him. Drinking him in, tilting his head this way and that, playing his fingers over his lips and over his collar bones. It is always a nerve wracking process, Sebastian feeling more under judgement than he’s ever felt even in a confessional, more vulnerable, more liable to be found with fault.

But Anders, when he’s done looking, always says the same thing. “Gorgeous.”

Sebastian inhales sharply with pleasure. In spite of the cool night air, he is already hard.

Anders finally sits down in front of him, on the edge of his bed, and slips out of his coat, letting it fall to the mattress. His hand moves to the fastening of his breaches, and Sebastian palms his his calves with keen anticipation. And then he takes himself out, and strokes -- Sebastian lets out a soft breath. Anders looks down at him, expression lazy and satisfied, mouth curling into a smirk. “You like that?”

“You know I do.”

“Maker, but you’re hot. You should suck it.”

Sebastian doesn’t need to be told twice -- doesn’t need to be told at all, really, except that he is too eager-to-please to dare act without permission. He takes Anders into his mouth. He is still mostly soft; it takes him a long, long while to be worn out, and so it takes him a little longer than most to get started. But Sebastian doesn’t mind. It seems to him a privilege, to get to make Anders hard, to feel Anders’ arousal as a direct consequence of his own efforts. He loves the slow and gradual escalation of it, the moment-to-moment drama of Anders’ pleasure. The sounds he makes, the grateful sighs and the murmurs of praise, half-caustic and half-steeped with affection, and of course the choked curses that come whenever Sebastian does something particularly clever with his tongue. His hands roam everywhere, his fingers dragging appreciatively through Sebastian’s hair, or feeling out the broad shape of his shoulders, or trailing over his throat or his cheeks so that he can feel the shape of himself inside Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian groans at his touches and sucks with vigor. It would be easy, he thinks, to do this indefinitely.

Still, he makes himself pause when he feels that Anders is fully erect, the head of his cock wet and smooth, bared to Sebastian’s tongue. Sometimes Anders likes to move on immediately to a different activity, once he is hard and ready: perhaps hauling Sebastian up by the hair and throwing him facedown on the bed, perhaps kicking him backwards so he is on his back in the dirt, legs splayed and pulse jumping. Sebastian would oblige him in anything. He waits, shivery, for a sign.

But all Anders says is his name, breathlessly, _“Sebastian.”_ And so Sebastian applies himself once more, suckling eagerly on Anders’ cockhead, pressing the flat of his tongue against Anders’ frenulum, moaning at the flavor he finds there. Anders tastes so uniquely of Anders. It should not be any sort of revelation, but Sebastian finds himself noting it with gladness every single time he’s had occasion to do so. It is good. Maker, but he wants more. He uses every whore’s trick he knows, swallows deeply, again and again, his nose buried over and over in Anders’ wiry thatch of hair. He can feel how much space Anders occupies inside of him, inside of his throat, how little space he leaves for anything like breath, or protest, or doubt. Sebastian does not doubt. He gives Anders every ounce of care that he has, and Anders soon comes with an exclamation down his throat.

He holds Sebastian there for a minute as he weathers the sensation, his shaking hand fisted tightly in his hair. Sebastian tries not to squirm. His face is crushed against Anders’ stomach in a way that makes it impossible to breath even through his nose, and his jaw is still forced ludely open around Anders’ cock. He is starting to become dizzy just as Anders finally lets him go, and in spite of himself, he feels grateful to be allowed to withdraw. He does not withdraw far, however; merely pants quietly, still at his place between Anders’ legs, his cheek pressed against Anders’ cock. Anders is still hard, still wanting, no matter that he just filled Sebastian’s belly with his spend -- he’s a Warden, after all. Wardens take.

He hasn’t even begun to put Sebastian through his paces.

Like always, Sebastian is overcome with wantonness at the thought. He turns his head and nuzzles Anders’ cock, rubbing it against the bridge of his nose, pressing soft kisses along the shaft. His eyes are demurely closed, his lips swollen, his own cock desperately stiff between his legs. Above him, he hears Anders groan. “Andraste save me,” murmured with something nearing -- reverence? And then, recovering his composure, he says, “All right, enough. Come up here.”

Sebastian blinks his eyes open as he lets Anders pull him upwards; the both of them shift so as to be fully on the bed, forced close together by its thinness. Not that Sebastian minds, nor does he think that Anders minds, judging by the way he seems intent on pulling Sebastian even closer. “Like this,” he says, dragging Sebastian on top of him. Encouragingly, he pats Sebastian’s flank, and Sebastian flushes and obediently throws his leg over Anders’ waist so that he is straddling his lap. So that his thighs are spread and open -- Anders takes advantage of that immediately, a mere ripple of magic making his fingers drippingly slick, and him dragging those fingers without hesitation all the way from the tail of Sebastian’s spine to the entrance to his body. He gives Sebastian two at first, and then three, only a moment later; Sebastian shudders at his forcefulness. It feels so _good,_ to be taught how far he can be made to yield. The urge to take himself in hand is almost irresistible; instead, he clings to Anders’ shoulders. Anders pumps his fingers hard, spreading him and coating his insides with the slippery product of the spell; a bare minute of preparation later and he is already asking, “You think you’re ready, sweetheart? Are you ready for me to fill you up?”

Maker, but he’s impatient tonight. It’s not always this way. Sometimes it’s the opposite; sometimes he makes Sebastian beg and beg for even the slightest penetration. It’s a sweet torture, but it is true that this is much easier. All Sebastian has to do is nod, and then Anders is laying back on his elbows, gazing at him intently, the glimmer in his eyes conveying his permission.

“Go ahead, then,” he says.

Sebastian shudders at the command. Even closing his eyes, he can still feel himself being watched. Biting his lip, he positions himself, taking Anders’ cock in hand to steady it as he lines himself up -- Maker but it _burns,_ as he slowly pushes down. He perhaps should not have agreed that he was ready quite so soon, but he couldn’t help it. He wants to be fucked just as badly as Anders wants to fuck him, to be _taken_ just as badly as Anders wants to take him. He wants it more, by some measures. he steels himself and keeps going. The head of Anders’ cock pops all the way into him, and Anders lets out a wild groan; he thrusts upward, and Sebastian gasps and instinctively pushes down against him, and then Anders is fully inside him, seated to the hilt.

Sebastian shivers, and settles, pressing his hands flat against Anders’ chest to steady himself as he begins to bounce. It still hurts, still aches, but Sebastian finds that he doesn’t care. He is the one who gets to control the pace like this, after all, and so if he’s hurting, it’s no one’s fault but his. And it feels better than it doesn’t. He likes getting to be active now, besides, because he knows that later in the night he won’t be, that he’ll be too exhausted to do anything but acquiesce. So he moves quickly, impaling himself over and over again and crying out with abandon each time that he does.

“So fucking eager,” Anders comments. He is breathing hard, grunting, his hands squeezing Sebastian’s hips. “It’s not a race, you know.”

“I-- I know.”

“You feel good, though.”

“Anders,” Sebastian gasps.

Anders sits up to kiss him, wrapping an arm around his waist, groaning long and needy into his mouth -- and then he is coming. Sebastian shivers and kisses him back desperately. He is impossibly hard and swollen, purple between his legs. A few moments more of riding Anders, and he knows he would have come. As it is, he’s sure to erupt with barely more than a touch to his cock.

But Anders has other plans, other priorities. He pushes Sebastian off of him and onto his back, hands on his thighs, spreading and raising them. “Hold them there,” he instructs, and shaking, Sebastian grips his calves, his knees nearly at his chest. He oughtn’t to be startled, really, given how Anders has positioned him, but he still yelps when Anders’ fingers begin to investigate his hole. He does a much more thorough job of it this time than he did when first preparing him, his touch light, just circling Sebastian’s swollen opening at first, covering it with the pads of his fingers, plucking gently at the rim. Sebastian is beside himself, babbling and squirming. He is too sensitive; the touch is too much. He screams when Anders finally penetrates him, his fingers finding their way inside and spreading, kneading.

Just when he thinks he can’t stand it anymore, that he has found his edge, Anders pulls his fingers out again; Sebastian can feel wetness between his legs. Anders is playing with his seed, pulling it out of him and pushing it around. Sebastian trembles, imagining the sight he must make: his legs spread wide and in the air, his hole red and swollen and loose from being fucked, and now, smeared with come. Maker. Anders kisses the inside of his thigh soothingly, and that helps to calm him, but only a little. He feels lost, out of his head. “Anders,” he pleads.

“Hm?”

“I-- Anders.”

“You’ll have to do better.”

“Your-- your fingers.”

“What about my fingers, sweetheart?” Anders trails his hand up and down Sebastian’s thigh, and then in between his legs, and then, Maker, at his hole again, circling and teasing. Sebastian lets out a sob, losing coherency. But Anders seems to understand anyway. “You want my fingers inside you again?”

“Please yes. Please.”

"Tch. So demanding! I just fucked you, and you’re already impatient for more.”

_“Please.”_

Anders laughs. It’s such a strange sound, a free and easy sound, and Sebastian’s whole body aches to hear it. He sucks in a needy breath, half-imagining that he is sucking the sound of Anders’ laughter inside of himself -- his heart pounds at the envisioned acquisition. Anders is laying kisses on his thigh, the inside of his knee, again, and then his fingers find home.

“Poor needy thing,” he says fondly. “Slut.”

Sebastian’s vision goes white, and then black, and he floats through and through and through a boundless haze of pleasure.

The haze melts away only slowly, displaced by a rough, steady rhythm. Sebastian blinks. Anders is on top of him, eyes closed in concentration, forehead to his forehead, breathing against his lips. His cock is inside of him, thrusting in and out.

Sebastian sighs reverently and reaches up to bury his hands in Anders’ hair.

It is nice, to be fucked like this. The first time or two they did this, Anders had used a rejuvenation spell on him, something that made him hard again immediately; he only felt it was fair that Sebastian get off as many times as he did. But Sebastian hadn’t liked it. It made everything too tingly, and too much, the strangeness of the magic more predominant than any of the pleasure it allowed. And it had been too distracting. Because Sebastian _likes_ it like this, honestly, when he has already come and his own body has ceased demanding his attention. This way, there is nothing preventing him from focusing entirely on Anders. The girth of Anders inside him, how it spreads him open, and how eagerly his body grips it, how easily he yields. The heat of him, and the smoothness of his skin, the taste of his sweat dripping from his upper lip to Sebastian’s tongue. How well, how confidently, he takes his pleasure from Sebastian’s body. How he moves is if he is owed nothing less. As if he has a right to Sebastian, as if Sebastian has a duty to him.

Well, he is a Warden, after all. And Wardens _need._ Wardens take.

And also, he is Anders.

More and more, Sebastian is losing the fantasy of the first to the reality of the second.

Anders comes inside of him again, and Sebastian kisses him as he shakes his way through his orgasm. He wants to show Anders that he has him, that he is here for him. That he has no desire to be anywhere else. After a moment, Anders responds fiercely, his mouth forceful and intent on possessing; even after he has finished, after he has left Sebastian empty, he still seems heated, needing something further, something he hasn't yet found. He draws away from their kiss and brings his hand up to Sebastian’s face, presses his thumb against Sebastian’s ripe lips, eyes blown wide and intense as Sebastian’s ever seen them.

“Anders,” Sebastian asks gently. “What is it?”

Anders doesn’t answer the question. Instead he snaps to movement all at once, climbing over Sebastian’s legs, moving up his body until he is finally straddling his face. He fists Sebastian by hair and hauls him upwards so that Sebastian’s neck is craning at an exceedingly awkward angle and he is exactly eye level with Anders’ still-flush cock.

It is not as if it’s a position Sebastian has never been in before. He lets his eyes flutter shut and waits patiently for what he knows is coming, releasing a sigh of welcome as Anders breaches his lips. The taste and texture of semen is immediate, Anders’ cock coated in his own spend. Sebastian has no time or ability to lick it clean for him, because Anders is right away fucking his throat. It is not at all like before, where was able to lick and suck as he pleased. Now Anders punches in, every time, all the way to the base; now Sebastian has no choice but to swallow or choke. He does gag, for a bit, before he catches up to Anders’ tempo, vision going a little dark around the edges, but it is not too too long before he catches up, and when he does, Anders praises him with his own acerbic brand of affection, telling him how sweet he is, telling him that he was absolutely made for this, that he would be wasted on anything else.

Sebastian’s own cock twitches with interest at the words, and he digs his heels into the mattress, trying not to squirm. It is a difficult thing to accomplish, but one lesson from his years in the Chantry that has not abandoned him is the practice of patience. He focuses on the sensation of Anders taking his mouth, the relentless pace, the complete inescapability. It is calming. By the time Anders finishes again, pulling out of his mouth and coming over his lips, his brows, his face, he has mostly managed to school himself into stillness.

He spends a few moments coughing and trying to remember how to breath normally after Anders’ withdrawal. Anders’ weight disappears from over him, and he can’t help but feel bereft, even as he is still sputtering. But a moment later Anders is back, and there is a cup being pressed to his lips. He sips gratefully, noting the taste of herbs, and the way it soothes his throat more than seems natural. “Thank you,” he murmurs, once he has collected himself enough to manage it, and Anders smiles at him, crooked and fond.

“You’re so good at this,” he says. He wraps an arm around Sebastian’s waist, pulling him close and stroking his hair. Sebastian gasps a little in surprise, as he is jostled, spilling a little bit of the liquid over his lap. He looks to Anders, and sees that Anders’ eyes are darkening again, and then Anders’ fingers are moving from his hair to his face, dragging through the seed he’s left there, gathering it at his lips.

Sebastian closes his eyes and laps it up compliantly. He has no objection to the taste of it, and he loves the way that Anders’ breath hitches as he watches. “You’re getting hard again,” Anders observes, eventually, and Sebastian knows that it’s true. Maker, he’s not so young and randy as he once was, but he’d have to be a corpse not to find himself affected by this.

Still, he doubts his ability to actually reach orgasm again. But he knows that it is not up to him. Anders nudges him, saying, “Here,” pushing him to lay on the bed. He follows, stretching out on his side next to Anders, so that their knees are touching, and their foreheads. It is so strangely intimate. Sebastian, suddenly lightheaded, doesn’t quite know how to figure it.

“Anders,” he breathes, shakily, and Anders kisses him reassuringly.

“I won’t use magic,” he promises. “Just trust me.”

Sebastian doesn’t know if he should, but he does. There is no way to help that. He lets out a breathless whine as Anders wraps his hand around his half-hard cock; it is bordering on painful, with how sensitive he is, how much stimulation he has had to bear. But Anders is gentle. Anders murmurs to him in the same cadence that he speaks to his patients in, the one containing all of his odd misplaced kindness, the one that Sebastian would so badly like to follow into, if only he could wrap his around all the meaning tied up in it. He still can’t quite, but here, at least, he doesn’t have to eavesdrop. Hear, Anders is murmuring just for him. He shudders, and focuses, and it starts to feel better than it does worse, and soon he is fully hard again, and ready, and Anders looks hugely pleased with himself.

He uses his mouth to get Sebastian the rest of the way off, lapping at his cock, and then pushing his legs up and lapping at his wet mess of a hole, and if Sebastian had more energy he knows he would be screaming. Instead he floats, and gasps quietly, and spends himself all over his stomach with nothing more than a whimper.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Anders asks, coming back up. He tucks Sebastian against his chest, rubbing the back of his neck in soothing motions. Mutely, Sebastian shakes his head. It wasn’t so bad at all. Anders smiles, and kisses his forehead, and then he takes Sebastian’s hands between his own and drags them downwards, between their bodies. He wraps them around his cock. It takes almost more energy than Sebastian has to jack him off, and he is sure he does it without any finesse whatsoever. But Anders seems to like it well enough. Or perhaps the thing he truly likes is the sensation of Sebastian shivering in his arms as he pleasures him, the lashes of Sebastian’s tear-wet eyes fluttering against his shoulder.

He comes, and his spend joins the mess already coating Sebastian’s stomach. He doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t demand anything else. Just pants against the top of Sebastian’s now-impossibly-mussed hair. His cock starts to soften just a little in Sebastian’s hands. Conversely, Sebastian feels his heart swell in response. Anders is finally close to sated. Sebastian has done well.

He drifts for he doesn’t know how long, until he is startled back into awareness by the sensation of Anders rolling him over, onto his other side -- Sebastian feels his cock against the small of his back, feels that he’s gone hard again. “Mm,” he says, and Anders wraps an arm around him, presses his cock flush against his ass.

“What did you say, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Yes,” manages Sebastian.

Anders fucks him again, spooning him, breathing with slow, reverent concentration against the nape of his neck. Sebastian feels him moving inside, and it is so natural that it almost feels like his own heartbeat. He could fall asleep like this, comforted and held and used, and Anders behind him, Anders blanketing him, all the hows and whys of him conveyed in the easy melting pressure of his thrusts. Perhaps he does fall asleep, because the next thing he knows is the sensation of cloth and cool water, over his stomach.

“Wha--?” he manages as the cloth moves between his legs, and Anders’ laughing voice answers him.

“Cleaning up,” he explains. “You’re going to need to stand, for just a minute. I’ve got to put a new blanket down.”

That sounds like much too tall an order to even be considerable. But Anders helps him up, and Anders only makes him stand swaying for a moment before he lays him back down. And then he brings more of the herb-infused liquid, for him to drink, and then he brings even more blankets, to cover them both up with, and then he gets back into bed himself, and that is the best of all.

Sebastian wonders how he went from valuing all the wide space between them in the Hanged Man’s ample beds to valuing Anders’ little cot for its ability to keep them close together. He doesn’t know the why of it, or even, really, the when. He just knows he likes the heat, and the smell of Anders’ skin. The noble things about him and the wicked things about him. The uncategorizable things in between.

It’s always always been one of Sebastian’s idle daydreams, to bed a Warden.

Anders himself now has more to do with Sebastian’s ardency than his Warden-ness ever did -- ever could.

“You’re thinking too much, Vael,” Anders chides him sleepily. “I can tell.”

That’s something that Anders says often. It comes at the end of sex just as frequently as “Gorgeous,” comes at the beginning. Sebastian, someday soon, is going to have to explain to him that thinking about things, deciding what the things are that you want, is not necessarily always for the worst.

It doesn’t have to be today, though.

He presses his nose to Anders’ chest and drifts off into dreaming.

+


End file.
